Clockwork Watcher
by firecracker-extraordinary
Summary: The Man who already controls almost half of the world could have had it all, if he had just reached across the car and shaken hands with the man in whose company he already spends almost every waking hour. Harry Potter/Mycroft Holmes
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: The junkie**

This was not the place Harry Potter had thought years ago he would eventually find himself at. He had had an idea that he would after a long and exciting life as an auror, grow old and grumpy and grey-haired, and most likely retire somewhere near magical London to enjoy the last passing years of his life. He had certainly deserved that. Anyone who wanted to argue about that, were told to have a word with Hermione Granger, who quickly whipped their asses back on track.

Therefore, it can be fairly said that leaving his the position as a promising auror at young age of 27 had not occurred to him during his early years of duty. Neither had the reason he then later left, before it had presented itself before him as a stone hard fact.

He was bored. So utterly bored, that the stillness started to burn within his veins like thick goo, preventing his normal blood flow and making his skin itch. Adventure had been like extra-oxygen fed to him and now it was hard to breath, suddenly without it. You see, oxygen gets you high. It's the same thing with adrenaline. Just the like the third cup of coffee in the morning, when the two earlier ones had just settled in. The risk of losing his life had become his way escape the dull life of wizards of the New Age.

As always after a war, just like in muggle wars, the ever thinner growing circle of "the bad guys", the Death Eaters, did not offer the challenge the Wizarding World had originally presumed it would. After all, when the tight leash Voldemort had held his followers in vanished, so did the Death Eater's enthusiasm. Oh, there were still the old-fashioned fanatics who thought the old traditions and courtship should be respected and the new more muggle-friendly ones banished. Of course there were, but instead of running around, cursing people faster than they could count, they took subtle terms into their politics: less radicalism, less violence. They became part of the new Ministry of Magic willingly which made many people let out heavy, relieved sighs.

For Harry this had meant more paperwork. God, he hated paperwork.

The mingling between the magical and non-magical world became considerably less cautious but more strict. Most people even knew the function of rubber duck these days, after they had realized that muggles weren't _actually_ poisonous like few of the pureblood families had insisted. The education was blooming now that the old lines of the Houses were smudged by the two dead Lords, other of Light and other of Dark, and also by the passing shadow of the war.

Suddenly people had connections. Everyone's' fate was connected to one another from through sympathies for the lost members of the family to their own saviors, no matter the House they had been sorted to before the war. They had new determination. There were no routes made ready for the witches and wizards of the New Age, for now they had to make their own.

War criminals were judged and imprisoned. New laws were passed. And so, all was good in the world.

That's how _he_ ended up _here._

It's nothing too remarkable, the office he is situated in. The floor is wooden, lined with scratches from the tables and office chairs and black high-heels. The windows are large but half-way shut window-blinds make them seem smaller than they actually are. The air smells of copy-paper and plastic plants.

It certainly seems like an office but Harry is neither dim nor trustful by nature. From the corner of his eye he can see the unblinking eye of a camera staring right at his profile. The room around the actual office is much like a sitting room, but from Harry's point of view it resembles observing room more than anything else. Bit like a huge aquarium where Harry is the fish that gets disturbed when someone knocks on the glass.

There are several other cameras situated around the dark corners of the place, some more visible than others. Without doubt there are microphones too; maybe in the higher, inner corner of the coffee table's leg or under the pot of a very innocent looking plastic plant.

He could make them all useless with one word.

He doesn't thought, and settles in burying his hands deep into the pockets of his faded grey sweater. He is so out of place in this silly little stage, build up just for him. Still, he has to give points for the dramatics, the sheer depth and carefulness of it, as everything is built to the smallest detail.

As much as it seems like a normal job-interview, Harry knows better than to believe that. This is going to be something extraordinary. Honestly thought, he doesn't know what to expect. Since only very few people from the muggle ministry and government knew of magic's existence. Despite many complains, mostly from the pureblood's direction, there had to be _some_, since who else would explain how the bridge of London had suddenly twisted around and around and finally crumbled into Thames during the Wizarding War. They couldn't_Obliviate_ the whole nation after all. It was a delicate line between the worlds. If wizards and witches would become too familiar with muggles, some greedy little wand-waver would eventually sell their world to them. Or other way around. The last thing they needed in the slowly healing Wizarding World was guns and drugs and nuclear weapons.

The door behind Harry croaks open. The man he sees is nothing like what he had imagined him to be. First of all, he's _mousy_. His face is long, lined with age and his eyes clear but watery, adding into greyish-blue color. Man has a fine brown hairline but at the top of his head he has a bald spot. Quietly Harry wonders if it's stress-baldness, if the man rubs it every time he is in trouble. In that case, it seems that the man gets into trouble a lot.

The thought sends a pleasant shiver down Harry's spine but he refuses the shudder.

The man has a small nose which he scratches quickly before shaking Harry's hand. It is dry and warm against his.

"So sorry to keep you waiting, young man. Please, sit down! I am Jonathan Eddings, as you may know. I hold a rather important position in the government."

Harry answers him with a quick, thin lipped smile and nods. He sits down again and the uncomfortable office chair digs its hard lines into his back. The other man, his future employer and the so called British Government, shuffles to the other side of the table and sits down with a soft huff.

"I'm Harold." Today Harry is Harold. Tomorrow he may be something else. Maybe. He quite likes the name Harold; it makes him sound older and wiser. On the other hand, it makes him sound like a butler.

"Ah, yes, yes…", the man mutters, shifts and rubs his nose again. It strongly strikes to Harry as _wrong!_ but he ignores the feeling for now.

"You have quite admirable list of referees and yet, I haven't heard much about your reputation."

The man, Jonathan Eddings, stares at him and waits for an explanation. He eyes Harry's faded sweater and jeans with poorly hidden distaste.

"I believe it is not a good thing to have a reputation in this line of duty", Harry says without breaking a sweat. This is his job, he knows what he's doing. Again: _wrong!_ How can this man, the man who has earned himself such dangerous name, not understand such simple thing? Harry's bad fashion choices do not affect his capability to work at maximum potential. This isn't what muggles consider a genius, is he? Harry hasn't been out of this world _that_ long.

"Quite so. Well then, why do you think you would be the best person for the job?"

Harry leans back in his chair, staring at the man with indifferent face but behind it, his mind is whirring. He decides to speak just for the worth of speaking. These ordinary, depthless questions are putting him off, big time.

"I have experience in several areas of importance for this job. I'm very well organized, courteous and", he leans toward the man, baring several teeth in his self-assured smile he saves for situations just like this, "…I'm quite clever."

This whole thing is like a pig in a bag. He can smell the _wrong!_ all over it. The man he wanted to meet would not ask such boring, ordinary questions from him. "The British Government" would not rub his nose when he is nervous about his new employee and he definitely would not own an office with fake plants. Actually Harry has a feeling there would be no interview at all to get to him, but a test.

_Oh!_

"Is that so?" Jonathan Eddings says but doesn't look too pleased at Harry's revelation, "That doesn't really matter, though. I'm looking for a bodyguard, not for the second coming of Einstein. No matter, if you can keep your mouth shut I think we will get along quite pleasantly. I do so hate people who show off."

"I'm not just a bodyguard", Harry says and the man across the table raises his thick eyebrow. Harry can't see this, however, because he's staring straight at the camera on his right.

"And I'm not someone you can just trick that easily either. Honestly, did you think this would work on me?"

"Excuse me?" The man hesitates and Harry turns to look at the minister again. Jonathan Eddings seems rather bewildered and Harry snaps his mouth shut.

What?

"What do you mean by that?" The man, with a very real bald-spot on his head demands and sounds quite put off, "I do not need a bodyguard who doesn't know his place. I need a shadow behind me! Someone who I can rely on, no matter what the situation. I don't need a smart-mouthed young man!"

_What?_ Had he… Had Harry _miscalculated?_ But he does trust his contacts, this _has to be_ the British Government, unless…

Harry taps his fingers against the office chair. Twice. He stares at the man across him and blinks slowly behind his glasses. The chair behind Jonathan Eddings has adjusted into man's shape and there's a packet of handkerchiefs on the table. The boring painting of a summer landscape on the wall is signed _S. Eddings_, as in probably Jonathan Eddings' wife or daughter.

This is Jonathan Eddings' office. He is really in need of an employee, a bodyguard. Not an actor then, Harry wonders and taps his fingers against his chair again. Slowly his smile widens into a full-blown grin which he smothers quickly. He bites the pad of his finger to keep down the bubbling excitement within his belly.

Oh, there was a clever, _clever_ person behind this test. Double test, just to confuse him. Already, Harry is quite smitten.

("I'm sorry, Mr. Eddings. I do not think I'm suitable for the job after all.")

* * *

If excitement would be a drug and sold in a bottle, Harry would be a drug addict. Those were his exact thoughts when he followed a beautiful woman called Anthea across the building. It was like the whole place was purely made of glass and metal, like a very expensive, very ordinary looking piece of art hidden in the plain sight. Harry had a feeling the glass was bullet-proof, however.

He smirked behind his hand and bit the pad of his middle finger again.

His steps clacked quietly after Anthea's high-heels' sharp snaps. If models were ninjas, Anthea would be a perfect example. She had her long brown hair tied high up into neat ponytail at the back of her head and she was wearing a grey, flexible looking jacket. Instead of a skirt she had grey, straight pants and in her hand the latest model of iPad. After she had told him to follow her, Anthea hadn't spared him a glance. When they had turned at the corner, Harry had thought he had seen a shape of a knife press into the fabric of her pants from her shin.

Oh yes, if excitement would be a drug, Harry would gladly become a junkie. To his amusement, his new (this time hopefully the real) employer seemed to be the next best thing.

Next, he was lead through a very humble looking wooden door.

"He is the only one who passed", Anthea stated without greeting the man before her.

Harry hid his feeling behind an indifferent mask again, even thought he was quite sure this man had seen him approaching through the several cameras on the way. He had to be aware of Harry's gleeful feelings which left masking his emotions the only option to save his professionalism. If he was lucky, his acting skills might even impress the man.

Said man had nothing on the table, except for a very fancy looking cup of tea. He stood up instantly when they entered the room. Harry couldn't help but admire the sheer elegance the man moved with, since he himself didn't own any of the kind. He had never quite gotten over his awkward teenage grow-spurt, which had left him suddenly with too long limbs and hair everywhere. The hair had been easy enough to handle, thank God, but the occasional stumbling had stuck.

"Good evening, Harold", the man said and leaned his hip against the table, "I am truly delighted to make your acquaintance. Would you like to have a seat?"

"No, thank you", Harry answered and pushed his round glasses a bit higher on his nose. He straightened his posture automatically and pressed his palms together behind his back.

This was more like what the personification of the British Government was supposed to look like. He looked polite from the head to toes. There was nothing too remarkable at the first sight of the man, with his average face. He couldn't really be called attractive but he wasn't ugly either. His face was merely pleasant to look at. Under the three piece suit Harry could tell that the man wasn't thin as a brick, but the softness around his belly wasn't that noticeable. He wasn't much older than Harry either, who was now in his early thirties. If one bothered to look past all that, there was certain sharpness in his eyes and proud raise in his chin, barely noticeable, but there. This man had authority people weren't even aware of and it made Harry's blood boil in a very pleasant way.

"You have friends in high places", the smug looking man said, "but not in too many, which is preferred", he continued smoothly and wiped invisible (or microscopically small) dust ball from his desk.

"I am rather pleased by your referees but naturally it was for the best if I tested you myself."

"And I passed?"

"With flying marks", the man gave him a smile that did not look as impressed as it could have. Harry didn't smile back either. He hadn't expected any pats on his head for the job well done. His job was to do the job well done, so praising him for it would be like singing praises to the milk-man for delivering the milk.

"You were recommended by the head of the National Special Defense Unit which is more than telling. People there have always been very keen to… accomplish things."

´Accomplish´ might have been a wrong word for it. "Legendary" was much closer, since the whole branch of National Special Defense Unit consisted of muggleborn witches and wizards, who struggled to keep the whole Wizarding World hidden. And with magic on their side they could, quite literally, accomplish almost anything in the muggle world. People from that particular Unit must have sounded like stuff of legends.

"Thank you, sir. Before we go on, I have been asked to inform you that wherever the contract we might later on make, take this partnership, I am not, under any circumstances, allowed to reveal any information about my previous work with the Unit."

First Harry had thought this would be annoying rule and it would most likely become that given enough time. But right now, he just wanted to face keeping his world hidden as a challenge even from this wonderful, exciting, _scary_ man.

The man hummed to himself under his breath and nodded.

"I would not ask that from you. It is not why I sought your services and it would make me seem highly unprofessional, not to mention irresolute and un-resourceful. Now then", the man opened his palm and Anthea gives him the iPad without a word. The man has soft ginger hair, Harry notices, as the man starts to read whatever is in front of him.

What he hears is a total surprise.

"Harry James Potter, son of Lily Potter nee Evans and James Potter. Both biological parents dead, since you turned one. Turned in custody of Petunia Dursley nee Evans and Vernon Dursley, with their son Dudley Dursley. Attended Little Surrey's public elementary and secondary school: average grades, but you seemed to be a bit of a troublemaker, Mr. Potter. No identified mental issues, average growth and health, maybe a bit underweight as seen by the notes but still. No criminal record, no unpaid bills. However there are no records of you, what so ever, after you turned eleven years old."

The man raises his gaze from the white screen and Harry resists the temptation to swallow. Damn his muggle records. He has never needed them before and he certainly has never bothered to check them. On the bright side, at least they don't read St Brutus' as uncle Vernon had once or twice threatened.

"The thing is, Mr. Potter", the man says and presses his lips together momentarily before continuing, "that logically there should be something: school records, accounts, bills, health care reports, et cetera. And yet, nothing. Not even a tiniest mark anywhere in the whole system."

The man looks on his left and touches the handle of a black umbrella, which is resting in a holder. The hand drops at his side again and he meets Harry's gaze with a bit of wonder in his eyes.

"The _most_ interesting thing is, however, that Mr. and Mrs. Dursley are convinced that you have never lived under their roof."

Ah, Harry thinks and his gaze falls to the floor, this is going to be awkward. He humors the possibilities in his head before answering.

"They never liked me that much. Even when I lived there, they were busy telling the neighbors that I wasn't their child. I'm not surprised they told you that."

The man raises his eyebrow elegantly and seems to consider the new information.

"They lied to official records about you?"

Harry huffs and his mouth quirks a little in a humorless smile.

"Most certainly. If they have a chance of any kind to officially wipe out my entire existence they would gladly take it."

"And why would that be the case?"

Harry glances towards the other but is not put off by his show of sympathy. This man doesn't want to hear a sob story about his abused childhood, about cupboards and angry bulldogs. He wants to hear if there is something wrong with Harry: what was the thing in him that made his supposed guardians hate him so much, and if his nature will affect the job. As a passing thought, Harry also wonders if the smug looking man thinks he is lying. He has no way of knowing if Harry did actually ever live under the roof of the Dursleys. Oh, but the neighbors, they would have told him they had seen Harry run around as a thinner-than-paper 11-years-old kid. And if not, Harry has a feeling this man could find it out some other, mysterious way. That settles it then.

"Aunt Petunia had a personal reason to hate my mother, which in turn made her hate me. And of course that passed off to uncle Vernon and Dudley."

Harry shrugs nonchalantly. There isn't much else to say and to be fair, he has told the truth. Well, a half-truth but still. He doesn't remember if leaving out information was considered lying or not.

"And after you left Little Surrey?"

"Private school and a job undercover, hence the missing records. Later I worked with the Unit."

There is so much more he could say, so many things he could use to impress this man. He has fought basilisks, dragons, dementors and he has made a successful burglary into one of the world's most protected places and killed a Dark Lord. And yet, he can't say anything. If the man can't deduce his abilities from the shine of his eyes Harry is going to be very disappointed. This all has seemed very interesting so far.

"Well, this has been very interesting so far", the man says and Harry blinks, wondering if that was merely a coincidence, "You can consider yourself… reinforced."

Harry bows shortly, feeling a bit stupid afterwards but with bubbles of happiness making his stomach turn upside down, he doesn't really care. He leaves the room without looking back, his face still a mask of casual indifference.

That had been all he needed to hear.

* * *

His job doesn't immediately get exciting. He's just a secondary assistant, even thought that seems to be a wrong word again. People seem to confuse a lot of things. He's more like the secondary whatever-the-Man-requires. And yes, the Man with capital M. He still hasn't heard his employer's name but that doesn't bother him much. He would be none the wiser with the Man's name.

So far Harry has been a bag-carrier (he wasn't allowed to shake the briefcase at all, for some reason), a personal driver (be at the 221b Baker Street, 3. 43 a.m. sharp), a messenger (Oh, excuse me, your majesty) and even an errand boy (tea, dash of milk, half spoonful of sugar). So far he hasn't minded, since he has had so much to observe. The people the Man meets are always important people: celebrities, politicians and bankers, with important notes and silently whispered scandals of one another. There are beauties, manipulators, the wicked ones, the forceful ones, cheaters and bribers, and yet the Man charms them all. He attaches the needed strings together or sometimes breaks the ones that cause harm. He swarms past them all with casual politeness and sharp eyes and carefully chosen words.

Harry is impressed. And it is not an easy task to impress him after the life he has lived. No wonder the man looks as smug as humanly possible whenever he can afford it. Harry would too, if he could run entire government, not to mention a whole country, as effortlessly as the smarmy Man.

When Anthea (or Mary, Helen, Amelia) asks him to come with her, he knows something has shifted. What follows is really not an easy day. He gets thrown, punched and stabbed, even almost shot but Anthea seems rather pleased with him afterwards and nods at Harry when he finally gets to swipe some sweat off his forehead.

The word of the day is "schedule" now and forever Anthea (today Valkyrie) tells him (today Hamish, which for some reason made the Man chuckle) softly, when they sit across the Man in a fancy Bentley. Harry feels out of place but ignores the useless feeling of slight embarrassment. He probably seems ridiculously pathetic in his faded sweater, the piece of clothing radiating the difference between him and the sleek surface of the car bench. The man in three piece suit doesn't seem to mind.

Each and every minute of the Man's life is carefully scheduled and organized to the finest detail, and little by little, it becomes Harry's job to alter those details. He makes appointments and reservations, informs the Man's other employees whenever they are needed and in turn informs the Man of the movements of the others. He is continuously impressed by the resources the Man has in his reach.

On the while, Harry becomes an expert in counting minutes and being aware of every hour. He even has a phone now, which puts him on edge. Suddenly he knows every minute of the Man's life, but nothing about the Man himself. In a way it's exciting.

In a way it's sad.

This partnership could be so much more, given enough time. The British Government and the Savior of the Wizarding World, working together; the man with all the assets a muggle can possibly have and a trained auror with magic strong enough to kill a Lord.

They could rule the world together if they wanted. Imagine that.

Harry bites the pad of his middle finger to hide his grin. He knows they would never do that and Harry himself wouldn't really want the responsibility. But the fact that they _could_ do it if they wanted to, gives his brain a doze of barely contained exhilaration.

The Man stares at him across the car and for a second it feels like he can understand the meaning of pure fire behind Harry's gaze. The moment passes, nothing happens and the Man frowns, looking out of window into the rainy London.

The Man who already controls almost half of the world could have had it all, if he had just reached across the car and shaken hands with the man in whose company he already spends almost every waking hour.

* * *

It takes some time to get to see the Man as human and not as the British Government. Surprisingly, all it takes in the end is a long and exhausting business meeting. And a cake.

Harry (today Henry) sits beside his employer in one their most usual meeting places and picks at his fried vegetables. His eyes secretly follow the businessman across the table, who chats at his boss with animated hand signs. Maybe he is originally Italian, Harry thinks as he taps at his phone in order to look uninterested in all the while continuing conversation in order give the men a fake feeling of privacy.

It's the change in his usually so smug employer that catches his attention immediately, when the maybe-Italian suggests they move on to dessert. His shoulders don't slump or his posture doesn't change, but the silent, world-weary sighs that leaves his thin lips is heavy enough to crush a whole building. Harry stops chewing and looks at the Man from the corner of his eye.

"I think I shall refrain myself from such small pleasur-"

"Nonsense, dear man! This place has such lovely chocolate cake that I have to insist you to try it! Ehm, Marie! Marie, dear, would you bring us some of that lovely cake you were talking about earlier? Thank you, darling!"

The Man's hand twitches and Harry is momentarily distracted by the thin, blunt fingers and slightly larger joints. The ginger haired man licks his lips, swallows his annoyance and crosses his hands as if getting ready to resist a temptation. He clears his throat and scans the room with his eyes, clearly looking for a distraction. He looks almost miserable. Harry in turn swallows the carrot and wonders.

What the other politician just did was rude and probably an unfortunately big blow to his employer's ego, since the man is so used to everyone listening to even his tiniest wishes. The whole situation must have irritated the Man a lot more than he lets on. Harry, who has this whole time played with his new phone anyway, starts clicking away with it, this time with a proper goal.

When Marie-the-waitress arrives a few minutes after, she's holding one piece of chocolate cake and a new glass of water. She places each of the items before her customers.

"I'm sorry, dear, but we ordered two pieces of cake."

Marie blinks twice at their guest.

"Mr. Holmes originally preferred to have none, sir. Now, excuse me."

Two politicians are left sitting in silence at the table, other looking flustered, while the other looks as if nothing out of ordinary has happened. His employer, Mr. Holmes, has a damn fine poker face, Harry has to give him that.

Later when their guest excuses himself from their company, face still burning with humiliation of his orders being over-written, Harry and the Man stay in their places for a while. Finally Mr. Holmes' mouth turns into a pleased smile.

"That was very clever of you, Henry."

"Thank you, sir. What he did was rather rude", Harry murmurs as he stabs his fork through an unresisting onion, "and his hands annoyed me."

Later in Bentley Harry raises his eyebrows at his boss as he listens him humming quietly, deep in his thoughts. Apart from that, rest of their day is spent in what to Harry seems to be a companionable silence.

If he later that evening received a whole new wardrobe, he just counts it as a small personal victory.

* * *

"We are counting on you, Hans", Anthea's voice whispers to Harry from small mike that is fitted snugly in his left ear. Harry nods more to himself than to anyone else. And well, it's not like no one can see him.

Today is his day. A day made clear just for him. At least it almost feels like that but truthfully he's doing one of his latest job adjustments. Burglary isn't something new to him but Mr. Holmes doesn't need to know that. For once, he can just be left guessing.

The thing Harry is supposed to retrieve is not his business, nothing interesting and top secret. So, of course he had jumped in when a chance to find out what was the whole hassle all about presented itself.

The first problem awaits him at the gates of the manor.

It's a beautiful place really, fateful to its Victorian style from the paving to fountains. It's something Harry had once imagined the Malfoy Manor to be like. The problem is that it's loaded with cameras, motion-detectors and other electrical equipment Harry has absolute zero interest in. And what he needs is inside the manor, so obviously he first needs to get past all these little welcoming-presents the owner of the manor has installed for him.

Harry almost feels bad for him. Or her. He really doesn't care either way.

He knows the Man and Anthea are listening to his every move from the electrical equipment wired on him and it feels a bit uncomfortable. Absently he scratches his cheek and wonders if Mr. Holmes will be cross with him if he destroys them. Probably not, if it gets his job done, it's not like the smug bastard doesn't have enough money to buy him new ones.

Harry looks down to the wire which disappears under his clothes like a small snake. He really hasn't looked like himself since the Man renewed his wardrobe. Nowadays he is wearing smart looking black pants, which can only be described as airy since they're so soft and stretchable, and the shiniest shoes he has ever owned. He wears a quite dashing grey jacket that comes down to his tights and under it a black vest, almost like a proper butler. The grey shirt and tie seem to blend together. All these, with his short raven-black hair and round glasses, he could be mistaken for Oxford University student who has wandered far away from home.

It's sad that there is no one around to appreciate his looks as he makes his first burglary under Mr. Holmes' name. He is one handsome thief.

Harry looks up and over the iron gates of the manor and runs his hand over the stony walls surrounding the place. He spots a camera and stares right at it.

He lets his magic breathe a little.

There's quiet whirring, electrical cracking and few flying light-spots in the air, like small stars that burn brightly for a second before dying. The ever-moving cameras stop. The streetlamps flicker and leave Harry in the darkness to listen the silence. Even his microphone died, disconnecting him from his employer and coworker. Magic really doesn't go with science.

Harry bites the pad of his middle finger in his excitement and snatches his wand from his pocket. He opens the gate with simple _Alohomora_ and rejoices about the wonderful feeling of using his magic again. It's really been too long. The break in is a piece of cake to him but he's not stupid enough to go in without a pair of gloves. What an embarrassment it would be, if he would be caught because he left fingerprints to the crime scene. The laughs it would cause would not be worth the paperwork.

The front door opens quietly before him as Harry steps through it. His shoes click against the marble floor and he has to cast _Muffliato_ to keep his steps silent. His new shiny shoes seem to have developed a fault. The door closes behind him as he starts his search.

Harry has seen the general layout drawing of the manor and he has an idea about where the owner keeps the strong-box. The owner of the house might be brilliant enough to steal from the government but he is not brilliant enough to escape from Harry Potter. His magic might be counted as cheating but honestly, it's only fair that he can use his personal skills.

Harry walks straight to the study and almost starts laughing out loud. There is a big, old, heavy safe box sitting right in the middle of the room with number codes and all. It's almost like a healthy, straightforward challenge to thieves; well, let's see if you have done your homework in the Thief Academy. Any other day Harry would have been happy to accept the challenge but he's kind of in a hurry. His ride should arrive in 10 minutes or so, so he has no time to waste.

Again simple _Alohomora_ does its trick and soon Harry has his breast-pocket filled with a file of something top secret. The curiosity towards the envelope vanishes as he admits to himself that he was in for the action, not the information. He can leave the information part to the more than capable hands of Mr. Holmes.

When he turns to leave, a blindingly bright light is directed to his face, making him almost jump out of his skin.

"What the hell is going on here?!"

Ah, a night guard, of course. Harry kicks himself mentally and fakes a nice smile to the man with a flashlight and a gun on his hip. Thankfully, on his hip and not in his hand, because even Harry Potter is not quick enough spell-caster to outwit a bullet. He really needs to remember that more often.

"Just a house visit, good sir. Nothing to be alarmed about."

"What the fuck do you think you're-?"

Harry doesn't let him finish but flicks his wand towards the man and casts _Obliviate, Confund_o and Disillusionment Charm. The obliviation is the tricky one. He really doesn't want to turn the unfortunate man into drooling vegetable after all. The night guard shakes his head while Harry shuts the heavy door of the safety box. The feeling of raw eggs smashed over his head make him shiver. That is all Harry does before he steps aside and lets the very confused looking night guard take a look at the room again. The poor man rubs his eyes.

"'the hell is going on in here? First a black-out and now I'm screaming at nothing. What would Mr. Albert say if he knew?"

Night guard stumbles away still rubbing his eyes. Harry smiles after him and hopes that Mr. Albert, whoever that is, will not make the man's life too difficult when he finds out that his precious papers have been taken during the night. With pleased huff Harry goes off to destroy the security camera tape for that night and apparates close to the car waiting for him a few miles away. Anthea is leaning against it, furiously tapping her phone, most likely trying to get in contact with Harry. Did he accidentally destroy his phone too? Probably.

He casts silent _Finite Incantatem_ on himself.

"Something wrong?"

Anthea's head snaps up, her posture stiff as if she's ready to launch an attack. Harry can almost see her biting the inside of her cheek, to hold back a curse or a laugh, Harry is not sure which.

"Welcome back, Hans", she mutters finally and relaxes a bit, eyeing Harry with new interest, "What happened?"

Harry shrugs and pats his breast-pocket with a smile.

"All done."

_"Really?"_

"Sorry about that black-out thing by the way. It's just… I work better without distractions, you know. Helps with concentration."

Anthea opens her mouth but holds back whatever she was going to say in favor of nodding towards the car.

"He's waiting for you."

They both enter the car, Anthea as a driver which leaves Harry to dutifully climb to the back seat where the Man is waiting for him. Once again Mr. Holmes is wearing a beautiful, no doubt tailor-made suit and his hands are softly curved around umbrella's handle. If the lost connection between them had somehow worried the man, it really doesn't show.

"Good evening, Hans", he says with almost unnoticeable raise of his chin, "I take it everything went in our favor."

Harry fishes the file from his pocket and hands it over to his boss. The ginger haired man flicks it open, scans the insides with his smoke-grey eyes and hides the whole thing inside his suit jacket.

"I believe congratulations are in order, Hans. Your work on this mission was exemplary considering it was your first. It requires vigorous efforts these days to find individuals with a set of _special_ skills such as yours."

No muscle moves in his body as the man speaks, except for the occasional tilt of his jaw at suitable points of his little speech. The car jolts on the move. The intrigued look he shoots at Harry gives him creeps.

"Pardon my curiosity but I am rather interested in what occurred just now by the manor. I take it you turned down the main source of electricity?"

"In a sense, yes, sir. Well, not really. More like the electricity got a bit…confused. Or swallowed. Or overwhelmed. Look, it is a bit hard to explain this in a way people can understand."

"I am more than advanced in laws of physics and the workings of electrical circuits, hence there is no need to hold yourself back."

Harry opens his mouth to disagree but thinks better of it. Instead he switches tactics.

"I did the job, didn't I? Does it matter how I did it? No one got hurt, there was no ruckus about the whole ordeal and you got your papers back. Everyone goes home happy."

"As your employer, I'm afraid I must insist-"

"No, you can't insist", Harry snaps at him and instantly the air in the car turns heavy as stone. Already as the words leave his mouth Harry is cursing at himself. Certain things are never completely hidden and his sometimes explosive temper bleeds through his mask. He can't have that. Harry rubs his palm against his eyes and leans his elbows against his knees. He lets the air from his lungs escape from his lips as he forces himself to become calm.

"I am… truly sorry, sir", he says softly and courageously meets the Man's sharper-than-bloody-knife stare, "It's to do with the Unit. That's the reason I cannot tell you. The… stuff they had me do, it taught me some things that are extremely hard to explain. I am more than happy to assist you in anything you need but I just cannot reveal some things. And I… I apologize for losing my temper."

It's not hard to play the part of ashamed employee since he does feel a very real hot flash of shame against his skin. For a moment he feels like a child for losing his composure in front of this marvelous man, who always appears so collected, even when he is not.

Silence takes over in the car as Anthea drives forward, not saying a word if she's heard something.

"Well", the Man says sounding soft and yet cutting, "I do find myself enjoying the work of professionals much more than those who are eager to drown the world in their bragging." His grey eyes are shining with various emotions from disappointment to understanding. There might actually be a bit of respect in the Man's stare, if one looks carefully enough.

"However, I would greatly appreciate it if you could keep in contact with us during your next assignment. Would that be appropriate?"

Harry raises his gaze from the Man's shoes, and eyes him from under his dark eyebrows. He doesn't mean to do it, but his face splits into toothy grin.

"Certainly. Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

Comments and corrections are greatly appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: The cursed**

When Gawain Robards, the current Head of the Auror Office, had contacted him, Harry had known he was in trouble. He just couldn't have fathomed the sheer depth of the said trouble.

"Look, Mr. Potter. This is completely our fault; we should have never allowed you to work for Mr. Holmes in the first place. We do apologize. Unfortunately, at the time we were unaware of his fatal position as the proper shadow-ruler of the British government."

Harry grits his teeth together in irritation. He sits in Robards' office, leaning his face into his fist and glowers at the Auror. This conversation really wasn't going into favorable direction.

"So, what? You want me to resign?"

"That would be it, yes."

"No."

Auror Robards gapes at him.

"_Excuse me?"_

"I said _no_", Harry repeats and straightens his back, "I refuse to resign. What's the point in that anyway? Mr. Holmes is one of the most important muggle-men in this country, perhaps even in our history, which also makes him a suitable target for lots of dangerous people. He needs protection. Can you imagine what would happen if he would be unable to work?"

"That would have terrible consequences, yes, I get it, Mr. Potter. However, I'm sure he is quite capable of taking care of himself. As far as I know he has most of the muggle's armed forces under his command. Several branches even."

Harry impatiently taps his fingers against his chair and continues to glare.

"_I know._ But how is he supposed to protect himself against something he doesn't know even exists? What if he were to be targeted by a wizard?"

"Why would he be?"

"Don't play this game with me, Robards. You're neither stupid nor ignorant enough to think that some wizards don't abuse their powers in the Muggle World. The man in as high position as Mr. Holmes will eventually become a target."

"And you think you would be the perfect choice as Mr. Holmes' protector? Is that it?"

"Yes, that's exactly it", Harry snarls and bangs his fist against the armrest of his chair, "No, screw that. I already _am _his protector. Why on earth would you need to replace me now?"

"Because you are the _Harry –_bloody-_Potter_!"

The silence falls between the two men and Gawain Robards rubs his eyes, looking as if he hasn't slept much in the last month. His robes are all ruffled up around his elbows and waist, suggesting that the older wizard really hasn't had time to even change his clothes lately. He probably wants to be in this position as little as Harry, maybe even less.

"I acknowledge that you're a powerful wizard, Potter. Everyone knows that but that is one of the problems really. If anyone from the Wizarding World was to see you as his protector, even the dimmest witches realize that there is something special going on there. It would still be, no matter how unconsciously for Mr. Holmes, a lot bigger risk than normally. An unnecessary risk."

Harry swallows. He knows Auror Robards is right about this but he refuses to give up so easily.

"I understand that. I know there's a risk. But who else would be fit for the job? Is there anyone else powerful enough for that?"

Robards scratches his eyebrow.

"Ah, well-… I mean-… I'm sure we will find someone fit enough for the duty."

"Really, now? Someone powerful enough, someone whose loyalty you know lies absolutely within what's best for the Wizarding World and someone who knows all about the Muggle World? Does someone like that really ring bells in your head, Robards?"

The Head Auror sighs heavily.

"I know where you're heading with this, Potter and I-…"

"He won't employ them."

They stare at each other over the table. This is something Harry feels confident about; he's seen the spark of trust in Holmes' eyes when he looks at him.

"He won't replace me and he certainly won't replace me with someone who is even a fraction less intelligent than I am. So, good luck in trying to find someone who fits in all those categories."

"We could obliviate him, you know", Robards says quietly, his tired eyes are staring at Harry coldly from where they have sunken into his skull, "We could modify his memory so that he believes he has employed whoever we wish for many years already."

Harry's eyes widen just a little bit in shock. He leans further from the man in disgust.

"You've got to be kidding me", he whispers heatedly, sounding horrified about the idea, "Have you-… Have you even met Mr. Holmes? Have you ever seen him work?! If we start playing with his brain he would… we would _break_ him. His mind is his most powerful asset, his most prized possession and it's _delicate_. We can't go around _tampering_ with it!"

He spits out the word "tampering" as if it means something equally as horrible as "torturing" or "shredding apart". Because that is what it would be, really: torture for Harry and a mind shred apart for Mr. Holmes. The whole idea makes his chest painfully squeeze in on itself.

The auror in front of him buries his face into his palm, stopping to think for a moment and seems to arrive in to same conclusion. He crosses his fingers under his chin and asks carefully:

"Then what would you suggest we do, Mr. Potter?"

"Let me work for him", Harry replies eagerly, "You won't find anyone more fit for the job and you know you can trust me. Also…"

Harry's gaze sharpens and he bares his teeth, looking feral.

"Were I to find out that you have casted even one spell on Mr. Holmes, there will be consequences beyond your imagination, Robards. After all, bending muggle's memory under your power in order to gain more control over their world, no matter with how good intentions is against basic human rights. It would be quite a scandal if people would find out you've been involved in something like that."

"Are you threatening me, Mr. Potter?" The older wizards blurts out, his eyes widened with surprise and, despite his obvious effort to hide it, nervousness. It's not every day one gets threatened by the Savior of the Wizarding World. People seem to often forget how tough Harry can be when he wants or has to be.

"Do I need to?" Harry asks calmly, his face melting back into indifferent mask he has now used to wearing. He stares at the man challengingly and without blinking. Just to add a bit more dramatics into his performance, a habit he has learned from Mr. Holmes, he lets his magic flow through him.

He can feel the cool depth of his own magical core, the power cracking under his skin, like a layer of electricity between the skin and bone. The green color in his irises deepens into what seems to be an almost unnatural shade.

"No. No! I do not think that will be necessary!" Gawain Robards gasps out and seems to sink deeper into his chair. The hairs at the back of his neck are standing up as a warning. He breathes deeply through his nose and closes his eyes for a moment. When he has composed himself again, he looks at Harry as if he is a one big, living and breathing question mark.

"You have never been this defensive before."

Harry shrugs at him and avoids the man's gaze. The Head Auror seems to find his guts again and leans a bit closer.

"This will be a secret between the two of us and the Unit, ok? No kissing and telling after this."

Harry snorts and presses his lips tightly together so that he won't get thrown out for insulting the Head Auror. He most definitely does not do "kissing and telling". He is far from such amateurism.

"There is damage-control to be done, though", Robards says and strokes his neck absently, "I need you to make an Unbreakable Vow."

Harry flinches, looking grim and worried.

"About what? That is not something I would give lightly."

"I am not a child, Potter! I happen to be a professional, no matter what you think", the auror snaps at him, now sounding annoyed, "If we are going to do this, then it's going to be according to official rules. The only things I need you to swear are that you will try your best at protecting Mr. Holmes, that you will do the same with keeping our world hidden, and that you will not use your position to gain power for yourself. It's an official method and it needs to be done if you want to go through with this. All the other wizards, who are in the same situation as you, have given the same vow. It's a security measure against the greed of power. Sometimes the idea of controlling the important muggles can become too… tempting."

Harry eyes the man warily and finally, after few minutes of staring competition, nods. His word is heavy.

"Fine."

* * *

"Where's Madison?" Harry asks as he throws his grey jacket over the backrest of a fluffy armchair in one of Mr. Holmes' offices. He looks around the room questionably.

"She will not be joining us today, …?"

"Hale."

"She will not be joining us today, Hale. Actually, she will most likely be unable to carry out her normal duties for a few days. I trust you to take care of things."

"Certainly, sir", Harry nods at the Man and lets the armchair catch his dead weight.

He lounges at his spot for a while, letting his legs rest straight and his head loll against the expensive but comfortable fabric of the chair. In few minutes he digs his new Blackberry from his pocket and starts checking the news about the upcoming muggle-elections.

Eventually his eyes escape the phone's screen and start sweeping the Man's profile. Silently he wonders if he's ever going to be able to tell the man about the conditions he is under. This is not a freelance-job anymore, not when aurors have stuck their noses into his business. This is a governmental matter and far beyond his control. All he can do is hold on tight and try to direct the waves in a way that they won't end up drowning him. Or them.

He wonders what the Man's reaction would be if he was to find out what Harry had sworn in his name today.

"It is never good to let unsaid thing rot on one's tongue", Mr. Holmes says suddenly and very nearly makes Harry jump out of his skin. He feels the creeping feeling of warmth rise up his neck when he realizes that the Man had caught him staring.

"Right. Sorry, sir. It was not my intention to stare."

"Ah, well, it would be lying if I claimed that it bothered me."

They both stop to stare at each other awkwardly, Mr. Holmes looking like he managed to surprise even himself. He coughs.

"Would you take a look at this, Hale. I may need a second opinion about what to do about this."

With couple large steps Harry is by his side and he leans to look at the laptop screen. The website is terrible neon-violet and on the top of the page it states proudly, with large, curvy letters: _The Liquid Leisure – Whatever your heart desires can now be fitted into one tiny bottle!_ Harry furrows his brows.

"Is that a-… a drug-store?"

"Indeed. They sell… drugs in what appears to be a liquid form."

Harry's frown deepens a degree more.

"Then what is there to think about? Shouldn't we order someone to get rid of that blasted thing."

The look Mr. Holmes shoots at him is not content. Harry stops to think a little wider.

"You mean we don't know what these drugs are? Or do you want me to find out if this shop is part of a bigger chain of illegal drug-stores?"

"I'd like you to find out about both, actually. Some of the drugs they are purchasing are not the kind we have seen before. I am curious about their ingredients. I have also been informed that they have rather peculiar effects, such as very vibrant hallucinations and changes in the vocal cords of the consumer. As far as we are aware, this shop is one of its kind, but as you might know, I like to be certain before rushing into… hasty actions."

Harry scratches his jaw. He really needs to shave tomorrow.

"Well, I can take a look, there's no harm in that. Do you have a way for me to contact them or shall I figure it out? I could sneak in and sniff around a little bit."

His employer fishes a business-card from his pocket and hands it over to Harry. It's unusually thick one, but the cover is colored with same tasteless violet.

"One of my men contacted them for you under a name Jack Miles. I trust you to take care of the leg work. I have been led to understand that you are advanced in arts of hiding your true identity."

Harry flips the card around curiously and-… _Ah._ He almost bursts out laughing, barely managing to swallow down a huff of laughter.

"I appreciate the straightforwardness, Mr. Holmes", Harry says, his lips twitching dangerously, "But there's really no need to flatter me in such way. You had me at the '_good evening'_."

He holds the single condom-packet back to the other man, whose face starts gradually turn into same shade as his hair. Mr. Holmes looks like he is rather desperately struggling to keep himself together.

"My deepest apologies, Hale. My younger brother is, unfortunately for me, very keen on playing tricks on my expense."

Harry smiles nonchalantly at the Man.

"Sure. No harm done."

"Sherlock is really quite a mischief maker, always has been. I am truly very sorry."

"As I said, no harm done here. We'll be laughing at this in couple of weeks."

"I doubt that. My brother very rarely gets one over me, but I have to hand it to him; he did a good job this time."

"Come on", Harry coaxes, "It is a little bit funny."

His employer's façade crumbles finally and he chuckles out an embarrassed laughter.

"Yes, fine, it _was _quite amusing happenstance", he states and Harry meets his a little more brightly shining eyes with his own. Harry's face is once again split into wide grin and he feels like he might not be able to stop in a while. Suddenly Mr. Holmes sobers and the smile vanishes as quickly as it had appeared. He presses his hand against the pocket of his trousers.

"This means Sherlock has the real business-card. I must advice you to hurry, Hale. I would prefer it if my younger brother would keep out of this business."

Harry is already pulling his jacket on.

"I'm on my way, sir."

When he is about to close the door behind him, he is stopped by the Man's voice.

"And Hale… Do be careful, as cliché as it sounds. It's hard to come across employers like yourself."

Harry feels an urge to roll his eyes at the Man but refrains from doing so. Instead, he bites the pad of his middle finger and dignifies the man with a lame movie-line.

"Careful is my middle name. Sir."

* * *

The letters are taunting him, Harry thinks as he eyes the wall, his face pale as if he has seen a ghost. In a way he has. With big yellow letters, sprayed on the store-hall's wall it reads:

_TOO LATE, POTTER_

His eyes drop to the peeling edge of the wallpaper, barely covering a big letter "I". Harry feels his mouth dry as he pulls the wallpaper off the wall in a long stripe.

_I knew you had a thing for gingers._

Harry feels a sick twist in his stomach. He apparates away, not caring if someone can see him.

* * *

Harry bursts out from the men's bathroom, banging the door against the wall as he goes. If he is never again going to be welcomed to walk through the Diogenes's Club then that's the price he is willing to pay. Right now his major worry is his employer. He practically runs through the club room, gaining multiple shocked glances as he jerks one of the doors open at the furthest side of it. Mr. Holmes' office is empty. Harry curses under his breath as he taps the Man's number on his phone. He raises the vehicle next to his ear and prays without words.

"_This phone number is temporarily out of use. Please try aga-"_

He punches the picture of a red phone so hard he fears he is going to break the whole screen. Mr. Holmes never turns his phone off.

Harry presses his Blackberry against his forehead and thinks hard.

Gawain Robards had been right. Harry's mere presence was a threat to Mr. Holmes. But that is a subconscious thought which Harry ignores in favor of rolling the possibilities of finding Mr. Holmes in his head. His makes a sharp u-turn and closes the door behind him. The wand is already in his hand as if summoned by a mere intention.

"_Point me Mr. Holmes_."

His wand starts spinning on his palm and Harry stops breathing, his heart beating painfully hard rhythm in his chest. The wand rotates and rotates. It doesn't stop.

"Oh, fuck it! Are you serious?!"

He tugs at his own black hair in desperation. The spell doesn't work unless he knows the Man's first name. His _fucking_ first name, he should have guessed. Something always goes wrong. He shoves the wooden club room door open once more and grabs the first man he sees by his shoulder. There's a quiet squeak that escapes the older man's lips when Harry pushes him through the doorway.

"What is Mr. Holmes' first name?"

"My God, young man! Have you no manners?!"

"What is his first name?! Tell me. _RIGHT NOW_!"

"Mycroft, for heaven's sake. His name is Mycroft Holmes. Shouldn't you know that since you work for him? You could have asked him yourself, he did just walk through the club room with two gentlemen."

"With who?"

"How should I know? Did you lose him?"

"None of your business. Thank you for your time."

Harry throws a tight grin at the man and kicks him out. Oh, he will be in trouble later, he knows that. He just can't bring himself to care.

"_Point me…_", Harry whispers in hoarse voice and swallows down the thickness in his throat, "_Point me Mycroft Holmes._"

* * *

Alicia McConnell is a very normal girl.

And like a very normal 5-years-old girl she was, she was following a fat pigeon which she with her limited knowledge about the comings and goings of the world, thought was the most fascinating creature in whole creation, when a strange man appeared before her from thin air, scaring her pray away.

His hair was black as night and messed throughout by the wind. His round spectacles had slipped down his nose but the man didn't seem to mind.

He twirled around, looking around him and then back at his hand. A brown, wooden stick spun around atop of his palm.

"Who're you lookin' for, mister?"

The man raised his hypnotizing green eyes to her.

"Someone important."

Then he vanished again.

It didn't take more than few seconds before the man appeared again, his handsome face twisted with pain. He raised the wooden stick and pointed it at Alicia.

"_Obliviate."_

* * *

In the one of the dark allies of London, there was a loud crash to be heard along with an angry shout. One of the homeless persons stuck his head out from his makeshift home and narrowed his eyes at large rubbish bin.

First appeared a hand, then another, all the while tightly gripping a wooden stick. After that he could see a messy haired head of a young man. He looked frustrated and disgusted.

"Oh, lord", he moaned, "That wasn't there last time."

After he had swiped something that distantly resembled a molded sandwich off his shoulder and wiped some Chinese sauce from his cheek, the man balanced a branch of wood on his hand.

After he was happy with the given direction, he noticed the interested looking homeless man.

"_Obliviate._"

* * *

Harry doesn't stop apparating before he feels the warmth of his magic warning him. Mr. Holmes was close by, he could feel it. It isn't just a gut feeling, like the one you get when you think someone doesn't like you. In his case it is a cold, well, warm, thanks to his magic, certainty. His magic hums excitedly in his veins, like a living creature crawling over his bones and Harry feels like he is going to explode if doesn't move.

When he walks to the backdoor of an old orphan house he can feel the anti-apparation charms press against him. The building itself is grey and hollow-looking and again Harry has a feeling that whoever is behind all this is mocking him in some twisted, cruel way. He clenches his jaw and slips through the doorway.

With quick _Muffliato _his steps are silent once again and adrenaline joins his magic in his veins. Something within him is cheering and sobbing in relief at the same time and _bloody hell, _he really needs this, doesn't he?

He moves slowly and carefully from doorway to another. All the doors are open in invitation but there is no one in sight. In the end of one long corridor there is a closed door and Harry halts in his steps.

It's obvious. The warning is basically slammed into his face and screamed in the air for all to see and hear.

His spell reveals that there is nothing magical planted on the door and he moves towards it. It creaks open when he pushes it gently.

Mr. Holmes is sitting in old wooden chair and his hands are tightly pressed together by duct tape behind his back. There is linen going around his head and across his mouth, making him unable to talk. His back is turned towards Harry.

There is no one in the dark, empty dining hall besides them, so Harry shows his wand into his sleeve. There is a wand-holder circling his wrist so he can pull the wand out anytime he needs to.

As it is, he can't show Mr. Holmes his wand. That would raise unwanted questions and his Unbreakable Vow would again pulse painfully as a warning against his ribcage, were he to reveal anything about the Wizarding World to Mr. Holmes without an actual need.

He is really starting to hate that vow. It's restricting and Harry has always despised limitations.

Harry checks the room once more before touching his employer's stiff shoulder. The ginger head snaps towards him and Harry is momentarily distracted by his eye's wideness. They soften quickly however, when Harry kneels before the man. His hands burn against the Man's thighs' as he squeezes them gently just above knees.

"Are you alright?"

Mr. Holmes nods quickly and Harry smiles in relief. He reaches to unfold the linen from his employer's face when the Man leans towards him. His own hands are smudged with dirt.

"Now, isn't that just the sweetest thing?"

Harry whips around on his knees and automatically his hand flies to his sleeve. He is frozen in place, when he sees the familiar face of a woman who he had thought he would never have to meet again.

Pansy Parkinson is smiling. Her face isn't as Harry remembers but then again, he has changed a lot since the Wizarding War too. Her eyes are huge and black and heavily circled with black eye shadow, black hair perfectly in line and straight, falling just above her thin shoulders. Everything about the woman has turned black, except her milky-white skin and red, thin lips.

"Hello, Potter."

Harry feels Mr. Holmes' muscles stiffen against his shoulder, since he had by instinct leaned against the Man when a threat presented itself. He doesn't dare to face the Man so he stares at the woman instead. He wonders what Mr. Holmes thinks is going on.

"Pansy", Harry states out slowly and notices the two men behind her. His eyebrows furrow. Both of them seem dazed, staring at Pansy as if she's the most beautiful woman in existence. _Liquid Leisure _indeed.

"You do know that's against our laws."

The woman giggles in her fist. She looks down at him and Harry can see the anger turning into rage behind her black eyes.

"It wouldn't be if we had won the war."

There's a sharp pain in Harry's ribcage and he has to grasp Mr. Holmes' shin so that he doesn't wobble forward. This is a subject too close to the Wizarding World, then. Unwanted questions rising in his employers mind. He really needs to lead this conversation elsewhere.

"Why would you sink as low as to sell this… stuff to _muggles_? I thought it would be far below you."

"Oh, you haven't heard have you?" She looks at Harry in honest puzzlement and it sets Harry on edge, "Right now I am Undesirable number 56. I do have to earn my living somehow."

"So you are a fugitive."

"I am a business woman", she smiles with her teeth and gives the giggle again which Harry had often heard her direct to Malfoy back in Hogwarts, "and a survivor. And you, _Harry_", she drawls his name on her tongue like an exotic spice, "are about to become my customer."

"I honestly don't think so."

"Well, I honestly do", Pansy says and reaches within her shirt. Instantly Harry's hand disappears into his sleeve but Pansy clicks her tongue at him.

"That's a big no-no, Potter. You know you really don't want to do that with the ginger-boy here."

Harry feels sweat rise to his forehead and silently curses. Of course Pansy knows about his vow. Brilliant. Just brilliant, this makes things so much harder. However, Pansy can't kill Harry with his Unbreakable Vow if she threatens his life. That would give Harry a chance to use his magic against her and Pansy really can't outwit Harry in battle. She knows this. And that makes her dangerous as much as restricted.

Harry's grasp on his employer's leg gets firmer and he feels the Man tighten his muscles in response. His palm must be burning up, thanks to his magic.

When Pansy retreats her hand from inside of her shirt, there is a tiny bottle of pink liquid carefully balanced between her nails. Harry groans and Pansy's smile widens into a full-blown grin. The men behind her look like they are about to start drooling all over the floor.

"_Amortentia_", she announces and shakes the bottle for good measure, "A love potion, if you will, since you have never been good at potions. This stuff really puts the fear of women into hearts of men, don't you think?"

When words "love potion" leave her mouth, Harry has to bite his inner cheek to hold down a painful yell. Too many questions are rising in his employer's head and it _fucking hurts. _He has never hated the Man because he thinks so much but there's a first time for everything. Harry gasps out a pained breath. Finally, he turns to look at Mr. Holmes, his sweaty cheek now dragging against the Man's knee. He can feel sweat droplets form on his forehead.

Mr. Holmes' eyes are wide and alert but his face carefully controlled. There are about thousand questions forming in his head but Harry can also see the worry painted all over his features. Harry must look terrible but he can't really help it, since he feels like he is dangerously close to having a heart-attack. He mouths the words _"I'm so sorry"_ to the Man and squeezes his eyes closed, struggling with the pain that flames deep within his ribcage. He has a very bad feeling about what's going to happen now.

What he can't see, is the worried panic rising in the Man's grey eyes. In his painful state he doesn't even notice how the other jerks in his direction, as if trying to follow him when Harry drags himself on his wobbling feet.

"So, what? Your master plan is to make your own army in which each and every one of your soldiers is lusting after you?"

"It is quite endearing, I have to be honest with you", Pansy laughs and fishes out another bottle. This time it's filled with golden liquid which Harry could recognize anywhere, since he had once consumed the similar kind himself: _Felix felicis._

"I have a real treat for you tonight, David, darling", the woman whispers and winds her arms around the taller man's shoulders behind her. The man looks like he is about to come in his pants when Pansy's red lips flutter against his ear.

"I need you to swallow this, love", she urges and pushes the golden bottle in man's palm, "and make him drink this", he points in Harry's direction, when she pushes the love potion in muggle's other hand. The man seems hesistant and eyes Harry carefully. Pansy goes on.

"That, or he will kill me, David. You don't want me dead, do you?"

David feverishly shakes his head and chucks down the liquid luck without further hesitation. Pansy gleefully chuckles next to his ear.

Harry feels a bile rise into his throat. The idea of falling in love with Pansy of all people makes him want to throw up. Also, there is no way of knowing what will happen to Mr. Holmes after that. Or what will Pansy make him do to Mr. Holmes. The mere idea sends chills down his backbone.

After few seconds, the golden bottle falls on the floor and shatters. David's face goes blissfully blank and he smiles into nothingness, staggering on his feet when Pansy pushes him forwards. His face goes from pale as a sheet to purple, as the love- and luck potions flow through his blood circulation. Those two are clearly not meant to mix. The poor man looks sick and pained but obediently he staggers towards Harry, murderous intent clear on his face.

Harry is going to fall in love with Pansy or he is going to die. Neither of them are exactly favorable options.

Harry doesn't tremble anymore, not even when he should or when he is scared. But right now, he can feel the urge to shake in his knees. He's like a cornered animal knowing it's going to be slain. He has no escape and it feels like a worst kind of nightmare. The love potion isn't fatal so if he strikes with his magic, he will die due the Unbreakable Vow he has made to the Head Auror in order to protect their world. If he swallows the love potion, he will become Pansy's slave for God knows what purposes. If he attacks David physically, it's going to fail because the other man just swallowed _Felix Felicis,_ and it will end up in other man's victory, no matter what Harry tries.

He could run. He could sprint off and live, but that means leaving Mr. Holmes behind and that certainly is not an option. Sometimes he curses his own heroism. Harry is screwed, for the lack of a better word.

He doesn't look at the muggle approaching him slowly, but turns to face Mr. Holmes instead. He tries to memorize the Man's face, since he would really much rather look at him than at David. Harry's voice is barely a whisper. He doesn't even chastise himself for that, because the last time he was driven into corner like this was… It was when he had to let Voldemort kill him.

"I know you don't understand", he whispers softly, "But I'm going to die. I know you don't understand any of this, but there is no other way. There are no other alternatives. I'm done for it."

"Poor, Potter", Pansy taunts and claps her hands together like an excited child, "You see Mr. muggle, he is right. He can't escape because no matter what he does, the outcome will be the same. Harry Potter will die tonight. Fucking finally."

Holmes' eyes quickly scan Pansy's face and then Harry's, searching for something: a bluff, a lie, an uncertainty, anything, finding none. Harry thinks he has never seen the Man look so confused and so overwhelmed with worry.

"He is _cursed!_" Pansy shrieks and laughs and it sounds like nails scraping against blackboard in Harry's ears, "You've always _been_ cursed, haven't you Potter? Always wriggling your way out of trouble, but not this time! Draco would be so proud of me!"

She suddenly stops as if she has hit a wall and looks panicked. It's as if she has chocked on her own words and her face contracts in barely hidden heartbreak. It looks ugly on her face. Oh, Harry thinks absently, she's still in love with Malfoy, isn't she? Exactly how heartless the world can be towards the pair of them?

David has finally reached him and Harry raises his green eyes to muggle's face. Muggle's hand, slick with sweat, curls over his jaw and squeezes. He can feel the blunt nails digging into his jaw, sliding a little because of sweat and dirt and old Chinese sauce. Immediately he can feel the normal flow of blood and oxygen cut off, making the corners of his vision hazy.

Mr. Holmes tries to say something but his voice is muffled by thick linen. It's a shame; Harry would have loved to hear what the Man would have wanted to say at Harry's final moments. His own fingers spam uselessly at his sides. He can't do a thing. He will die. It's alright, really. It's not like it's the first time for him, which makes this whole thing a bit ironic.

Then his eyes lock with David's and understanding floods through him. The muggle's eyes are filled with so much sadness and pain and pure suffering, that it almost makes Harry's own water. The knife is on his hand on the next second, and he pushes it through David's abdomen. The man's head flops backwards, his eyes widened and mouth open in soundless scream of pain. There's a warm, watery feeling on Harry's hands and he fights the urge to puke.

Oh, he is back in the game, alright. But this game isn't fun at all.

Pansy is frozen in her place, looking like a living statue. Her black eyes are wide as saucers.

"Why would you do that? How could you?!"

With quiet, dark stare Harry steps over David's now collapsed body, and does not pause until he is standing right before the now trembling Pansy Parkinson. He quirks a humorless smile at her.

"David was _lucky _that I killed him, 'lucky' being the magic word", he says and sends a dirty wink to her, even though he feels anything but amused, "because even dying is better than working as your slave for eternity. I wonder what you have forced him to do, to make him arrive into such decision."

"Kill him!" Pansy shrieks, now terrified and desperate, and grasps the other muggle behind her by sleeve and drags him between her and Harry, "Kill him, I said, or he will kill me! Protect me!"

Smaller muggle's face twists and he throws a punch towards Harry, who blocks quickly and shows his arm away. Next Harry takes a firm hold of the man's hair and jerks his head down. The man's face collides with his knobby knee with a satisfying crunch. The man crumbles at Harry's feet, leaving a warm, wet, dark red spot on Harry's trousers. He didn't kill the man; he had just broken his nose and left him unconscious. A small victory.

Pansy's hand goes to her sleeve and both of them freeze on their places. They stare at each other, neither of them moving. Harry exhales slowly.

"Think you can win against me in a duel, Parkinson?"

Pansy might not be a genius but she's not stupid either. She flees as if there's a flock of wasps trailing after her. Heavy silence follows as Pansy slams the door closed after her, leaving Harry alone with Mr. Holmes.

Harry gasps heavily, rushing to muggle man's side and presses his fingers desperately against David's throat.

"Fuck!" He hisses menacingly and angrily throws the knife from his hand to the wall. There's no pulse on David's neck.

He turns around to face Mr. Holmes slowly, not sure what to expect. This whole things has become an unexplainable scene.

Mr. Holmes' face is unreadable as Harry rises on his feet and walks around him. He slices the duct tape off and makes a grim face at the red lines circling the Man's wrists. He then steps in front of his employer again and reaches to pull the linen off his mouth. Harry can't look in the grey eyes that are assessing him with dangerous sharpness. The linen falls off as Harry falls on his knees before the man once more. His hands fist around the damp fabric.

He will be sacked, Harry thinks and feels his chest squeeze uncomfortably tight. He has screwed things up and now he has to pay the price.

He will be demanded an explanation he cannot give, and it will make Mr. Holmes mad.

He will be told to stay away from the man and never see him again.

He will never see him again.

There is a blue handkerchief dapping gently against his cheek and Harry blinks behind his smudged glasses. His gaze snaps up to the Man. The silky fabric slides gently over his skin.

"You have made quite a mess, Harry", Mr. Holmes says, sounding firm.

His handkerchief covered slim fingers press against Harry's lower lip, and Harry feels his face heat up. He had no idea grey eyes could burn so fiercely.

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Already forgiven. More importantly, are you alright? You seemed rather pained at one point."

"I was poisoned, sir", Harry lies quickly since he really can't say his Unbreakable Vow caused him to almost have a heart-attack. Mr. Holmes stiffens. His gaze scans Harry's face worriedly.

"I have taken antidote, however. I just had to act as if I hadn't."

"You were bluffing", his employer clarifies and the corner of his mouth twists a little. He looks impressed at Harry's acting skills, "How clever. You had me worried for a second thought."

"My apologies", Harry mumbles and by instinct his hands raise and curl behind his employer's knees. He squeezes them in silent comfort as the dirt is gently cleaned from the soft skin under his eye.

"You could have called help", Mr. Holmes whispers.

"I didn't need to."

"Bit over-confident, are you?"

It's strangely intimate, vulnerable position for both of them. They study each other in silence, both of them stilling, unable and unwilling to break the soft contact.

Harry's pupils blow up as he slowly rubs his shaking fingertips against the Man's shin. He can feel the shiver against his cheek from the other's hand, as the handkerchief falls to the tips of the Man's fingers and he cradles Harry's face gently into his palm. Harry closes his eyes and presses his soft lips against Mr. Holmes' damaged wrist.

Then ear splitting scream makes them jerk away from each other. Harry stares at his blinking employer, who slowly rises from the chair.

"Ah, that would be MI6. Deducing by the sound, they have caught Miss Parkinson."

Harry's mouth falls open a little.

"Shall we?" Mr. Holmes suggests and nods towards the door. Harry can only follow stupidly after him.

* * *

True to his words, there are over twenty men dressed in thick black clothes with helmets over their faces and guns in their hands standing outside the building.

Two of them are holding the screaming and vigorously wriggling Pansy Parkinson between them, trying to drag her towards a van. She seems to be unable to reach for her wand.

"How...", Harry starts, closes his mouth and starts again, "How did they know what was going on? How did they know where we were?"

Mr. Holmes smiles thinly, looking like he really doesn't know what to do with his hands when he doesn't have an umbrella to hold. He ends up stuffing them into his pant pockets.

"I have a tracker installed behind one of my teeth. If I do not give them a signal every hour or so, they start wondering if something is wrong and track my current location. In a situation as this they will come and… retrieve me. They also take care of the... cleaning after us, so you do not need to bother yourself with that."

Harry feels a little stupid. He should have guessed the Man had something like that on his sleeve. Thankfully Pansy hadn't used any magic while holding Mr. Holmes as a prisoner, which means the tracker had worked.

"That is… awfully clever. And useful."

"You flatter me", the Man chuckles but sobers quickly, when Pansy makes a note of the two of them.

"_Potter!"_ She screams at the top of her lungs, making Harry flinch, "You think you can just go and walk away, don't you?! You think your happiness is going to last?! No need to lie, I saw your face, you're happy and it's _disgusting_!"

She is momentarily silenced by one of the men from MI6, but she viciously bites the man's hand so that he is forced to let go with a painful yelp.

"You don't _deserve_ to be happy, you hear me?! In the end everyone you care about will _die_! Because they always _do_, don't they, _Harry_?!"

She is finally shoved into the van and her screams get muffled by metal doors banged shut between them. Men from MI6 turn their head curiously towards the two of them but start packing away soon after. None of them approaches Harry or Mr. Holmes.

He can hear the Man behind him sift. Harry's own shoulders slump, suddenly feeling the heaviness of Pansy's words settle over him.

He can almost feel it. Mr. Holmes' hand hovers above his shoulder and Harry wonders if it's to drag him into a hug or just to rest against his shoulder. He is grateful that nothing of the sort happens.

Harry really doesn't want to admit it, because it makes him feel weak and silly, but Pansy's words had struck deep. For his employer to acknowledge it would be humiliating.

"She is merely trying to aggravate yo-"

"I know."

God, he feels tired and not just physically, either. He jolts out of his trance when Mr. Holmes speaks again.

"In the end, where on earth did you crawl up from, Hale? I have been noticing your dreadfully abhorrent smell for a while now."

Harry closes his eyes for a second and really can't help the amused smirk that rises to his lips no matter how hard he tries to force it away. He looks down on himself and has to agree: it looks and smells like he has crawled to hell and back.

"Always there to point out the most important matter, are you not, Mr. Holmes?"

The Man laughs out quietly, when Harry eyes the almost spotless state of his three piece suit with good flavored humor.

"Oh, yes. Someone has to. You are quite capable of making a mess, but cleaning...Well, you could use a bit more practice."

"Lucky me, having such a skilled employer."

"Now you are just using me."

"Well, I kind of have no choice. I'm creative; you can't expect me to be neat too."

"I expect you to be many things, but I do not think _smelly_ is included on the list."

"Too bad I haven't seen such list", Harry hums, already feeling a bit better and tries to wipe some dirt off, only managing to spread it wider.

"Is that Chow Mein sauce on your face?" Mr. Holmes' voice sounds incredulous, "Did you get peckish on your way to save me?"

"What?" Harry wipes his face with alarming speed while looking bewildered, "_What?!_ Of course not! I got dropped into a rubbish bin."

Mr. Holmes raises his elegant eyebrow, which leaves Harry coughing embarrassedly into his fist.

"It was an unfortunate accident."

"I must hope so. Is that a regular happenstance?"

Harry furrows his dark eyebrows at the Man.

"Me having accidents or getting dropped into a rubbish bin?"

Mr. Holmes raises his hand to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"Now I'm really starting to worry about us."

* * *

Obviously, I write for the comments so please take a minute to write a quick one? :) Much appreciated!


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